


It Might Be You

by cirnellie_x



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015), The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Romance, mentions of Napoleon Solo/various women
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-31
Updated: 2016-05-31
Packaged: 2018-07-11 07:32:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7037125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cirnellie_x/pseuds/cirnellie_x
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Napoleon decides that it’s time for him to settle down. Now, he just has to find the right woman...</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Might Be You

**Author's Note:**

> Translation in русский by [Solal](https://ficbook.net/authors/203274) available [here](https://ficbook.net/readfic/4448087)!
> 
> Translation in 中文 by [TinkerTinker](http://archiveofourown.org/users/TinkerTinker) available [here](http://www.mtslash.org/forum.php?mod=viewthread&tid=212598&page=1&extra=#pid4071354)!
> 
>  
> 
> 1) This story can be read in either movie or TV ‘verse.
> 
> 2) Watch the author work her way through every single clichéd fanfiction trope ever. 
> 
> 3) Title from the Stephen Bishop song.

 

 

“So,” said Napoleon, glancing over at his partner, who was industriously writing up a mission report. “I’ve decided that it’s time I stopped playing around and got serious with someone.”

Illya dropped his pen. There was a brief pause before he picked it up and continued writing. Their shared office was silent except for the scratching of pen on paper.

“Questions?” prompted Napoleon, leaning over to prod his partner in the side. “Sarcastic comments? No?"

Illya grunted, expertly dodging Napoleon’s hand while not pausing in his writing. “What prompted this decision? You have a particular lady in mind, I suppose?”

“Not...as such, no,” said Napoleon, thoughtful. “It’s just – I guess I’m getting a little tired of every date being a first or second date. I want something...more. I want a relationship that _means_ something.”

"Or," he added, a touch of wryness in his smile, “maybe I’m just getting old.”

His partner snorted. “In our line of work, living to grow old is a _good_ thing.”

“Ah, Russian practicality. Always so comforting.” Napoleon beamed at Illya. He was rewarded with an eye-roll.

“Anyway,” said Napoleon, standing up and fussily straightening his suit, “I’m going to get a cup of coffee. I’ll get you one, too.”

After Napoleon had left the room, Illya looked down at the report he’d been writing. The last two paragraphs were complete gibberish. Scowling, he crushed the sheet and started on a fresh one.

 

***

 

“Napoleon,” said Illya.

“Yes, Illya?” said Napoleon politely.

“When you told me you wanted to start dating someone seriously,” remarked Illya, “you did not mention you planned for that particular woman to be someone _who was going to try to kill us_.”

“Honest mistake,” said Napoleon. “How was I to know she was a double agent?”

Illya rattled the manacles chaining him to the wall irritably. “How did I get involved in this?”

“Wrong time, wrong place,” suggested Napoleon. He peeked at Illya out of the corner of his eye, and ventured, a little tentative, “wrong partner?”

“Yes to the first two,” said Illya. “On the last, I think not. I am not in the habit of making such mistakes.”

Napoleon shot Illya a tiny smile, hearing the unspoken forgiveness in his partner’s statement. He cocked his head to one side, listening. “I think someone's coming.”

Two hours later, they had overpowered the guards sent to interrogate them, retrieved their weapons and escaped the holding facility they had been locked in, leaving a trail of unconscious thugs behind them. Illya hotwired a truck parked outside the building – presumably one of their captors’ – and Napoleon drove them back to Headquarters.

They stepped into Headquarters to find Mr. Waverly waiting for them in the reception area.

“Mr. Solo,” said Mr. Waverly. “I’d like to speak to you in my office at once, please.” His tone left no room for argument.

Napoleon winced.

 

***

 

Life went on much as usual after that – get sent out on missions, mostly succeed but occasionally get captured, employ increasingly creative methods of getting free, return to Headquarters, do paperwork, paperwork and more paperwork.

Illya had mostly forgotten about Napoleon’s decision to start dating seriously, until one day he was forcibly reminded of it when Napoleon crept quietly into their office with a hunted look on his face.

Illya gave his partner a strange look as Napoleon hurriedly shut the door behind him and locked it.

“There are five women with tickets to various concerts out there,” hissed Napoleon. “They all managed to ambush me separately on my way from the front door to our office. And that walk takes me _one minute_.”

Illya’s lips quirked. “You cannot change your dating habits and expect none of the women in the office to notice,” he pointed out reasonably.

“Well, yes, but I didn’t expect _this_ ,” grumbled Napoleon.

“Take it as a compliment, Napoleon,” said Illya. “It seems that many of the women in our office consider you an excellent potential husband.”

“I _am_ an excellent potential husband,” protested Napoleon. “But that’s not the point. What am I going to _do?_ ”

Illya stared at him. “Why are you asking _me?_ ”

“Doesn’t this happen to you on a regular basis? I share this office with you, women come in here to try their luck at asking you out _all the time_. With me, women generally wait for me to do the asking.”

“That’s because you ask frequently, Napoleon.” Illya looked mildly amused. “I do not.”

“Not helpful.”

“I do not know what you want me to say.” Illya shrugged. “You have heard all the reasons I give these women for why I cannot go out with them.”

Napoleon sighed. “I don’t want to chase them away _completely._ ”

There was a knock on the door. Napoleon cringed and shot the door a dark look.

Illya went over to the door and unlocked it. “Yes?” he said, poking his head out.

“Mr. Waverly wants to see us in his office now,” he informed Napoleon a minute later.

He had, thought Illya, never seen Napoleon so pleased to be sent on a mission to the middle of the Yukon in the dead of winter before.

 

***

 

“Oh, hello,” said Napoleon as the door of the tiny cell he was locked in was flung open, and Illya, bound hand and foot, was unceremoniously tossed into his cell. He winced in sympathy as his partner landed face-first on the floor with a painful-sounding thump. Illya groaned and rolled over onto his back, then struggled up to a sitting position.

“So, does my Prince Charming have a plan to get us out of here?” asked Napoleon hopefully.

“Call me that again, and you can get yourself out of here,” growled Illya, shaking his mussed blond hair out of his eyes.

“So you do have a plan, then.” Napoleon beamed happily.

“Our friends neglected to remove my belt,” said Illya. “There’s a knife in the buckle.”

“You’re not going to be able to reach it with your hands tied behind you,” Napoleon pointed out. “Here, let me.”

Wriggling over to Illya best as he could with his hands and feet tightly tied, Napoleon looked over at his shoulder at his own bound hands, pondered for a moment, then bent his head over into Illya’s lap.

“What are you _doing_?” demanded Illya.

“Faster this way,” said Napoleon, voice muffled as he mouthed around Illya’s belt buckle, trying to pull the knife out with his teeth. “At least I can see what I’m doing.”

Illya stared down at Napoleon’s dark head bobbing in his lap and sighed deeply. He determinedly ran through all the experiments he had in progress at the U.N.C.L.E. labs in his mind. Napoleon tilted his head a little more and his cheek brushed against the zipper of Illya’s pants. The mental vision of experiments went up in flames.

Illya squeezed his eyes shut and bit his lip so hard he tasted blood.

“Almohf goh ih,” mumbled Napoleon around a mouthful of belt buckle.

“Hurry up,” Illya gritted out.

With a noise of triumph, Napoleon sat up looking slightly disheveled, holding a tiny, wicked-looking knife between his teeth. A wayward lock of hair fell into his eyes, and he shook it back impatiently.

Breathing a soundless sigh of relief, Illya scooted around so his back was to Napoleon. His partner bent over, carefully putting the knife in Illya’s hands so that he could start sawing at the rope that bound his hands together.

Illya made quick work of the rope around his hands, then cut the rope binding Napoleon’s hands as well. He handed the small knife to his partner to cut the ropes around his legs, then started working on untying the knots around his own legs.

Once he had gotten free, Napoleon winced, rubbing at his ankles. He glanced over at his partner, who was still sitting on the ground, almost done untying the ropes around his legs.

“Your lip’s bleeding,” said Napoleon in concern, kneeling beside Illya and grabbing his chin in one hand, tilting Illya’s face toward the single small window in the cell to get a better look. “Did they hurt you?”

_No, I did that on my own because a man’s self-control can only go so far_ , Illya didn’t say.

“I’m fine,” he muttered gruffly instead, shaking his head to dislodge Napoleon’s hand.

Napoleon, of course, took the evasion to mean that Illya had indeed been roughed up on the way to his cell, and appeared to take great pleasure in hitting the thugs a little harder than usual on their way out. Illya pretended not to notice, but couldn’t help the tiny warm glow of pleasure deep inside him.

Back at Headquarters, Napoleon suddenly stopped dead as they were walking down the corridor. His partner narrowly missed walking into him.

“What is it?” said Illya, quickly drawing his gun and looking around.

“I had a date,” groaned Napoleon, checking his watch, “two hours ago.”

Illya rolled his eyes and holstered his gun.

“I suppose I should call her.” Napoleon sighed.

Illya nodded. “I’ll be in the lab,” he said. “I want to run some tests on that chemical compound we found.”

Twenty minutes later, Napoleon slunk into the lab, looking crestfallen. Illya had a pair of goggles on and was mixing the contents of a series of glass beakers together.

Napoleon stopped a safe distance away and perched on one of the lab chairs. Illya glanced up at him and raised an eyebrow in query.

“She didn’t believe me,” said Napoleon ruefully. “When I tried to explain why I stood her up. Although she had every right to be angry, of course.”

“Maybe you should stick to dating U.N.C.L.E. women from now on,” said Illya. “Not the double agents, though.”

Napoleon shot him a mournful look, then rested his chin on his hands and sighed.

Illya looked up from his beakers and took pity on his disconsolate partner. “Come on,” he said, “let’s go get dinner.”

“My treat,” he added, feeling generous.

Napoleon perked up a little. “Really?”

“You can pay if you really want to,” said Illya.

“No, no,” said Napoleon hastily. He cast a wary eye over Illya’s assorted beakers. “Those things aren’t going to explode if we leave them alone, are they?”

“Only if I want them to,” said Illya, standing up and taking his goggles off. “Come on, let’s go.”

 

***

 

“I didn’t expect you tonight,” Illya said in surprise when Napoleon showed up on his doorstep late one evening.

“Oh – were you busy?” said Napoleon, looking apologetic. He turned to go.

“Yes, you’re interrupting a report I’m writing for Mr. Waverly,” said Illya, rolling his eyes. He pushed the door wider open. “Come in.”

“There’s leftover takeout in the kitchen if you want it,” he added as Napoleon took his jacket off and hung it up on the coat hook behind the door. Illya headed back to the sofa in the living room, where he had a sheaf of papers spread out over the coffee table, and slipped his glasses back on.

“This is delicious,” said Napoleon indistinctly around a mouthful of steak, wandering out from the kitchen holding a plate. “I’m shocked that you even have leftovers, with that appetite of yours.”

Illya grunted noncommittally. He categorically refused to tell Napoleon that he only had leftovers because he was so used to ordering food for the two of them that he’d placed an order for Napoleon as well, forgetting that his partner had mentioned he had a date that night so he wouldn’t be coming over to Illya’s place.

“Why are you here insulting my appetite and eating my leftovers, and not out on the town with your date?” he asked instead, pointedly _not_ thinking about how he was _pleased_ that Napoleon was here in his apartment insulting his appetite and eating his leftovers instead of being out on a date.

“She’s a lovely girl, but I guess we don’t really have a lot in common,” Napoleon shrugged. “We ran out of things to talk about, so I dropped her off at her place and came over here.”

Illya glanced up at his partner from where he was seated on the sofa. “This was your third date, no? Did you not realize that on the first date? Or the second?”

Napoleon gave him a pained look. “I haven’t been on a lot of third dates.”

“Hm,” Illya said. He _had_ realized that before his apparent change of heart, Napoleon had worked very hard at not taking any particular woman out too many times. Trying to date seriously instead of keeping every relationship at a surface level was new territory for Napoleon, he supposed. Distracted from that thought by the realization that he’d written a wrong measurement into one of the diagrams in his report, he crossed it out and wrote in the correct measurement, grumbling under his breath.

Napoleon took another huge bite of leftover steak, coming around behind the sofa to peer over Illya’s shoulder. “Wait, you’re _really_ writing a report for Mr. Waverly?”

“Yes?” Illya blinked up at his partner. “I said so, did I not?”

“I thought you were joking,” said Napoleon, circling back around the sofa and sitting down next to Illya. “It’s _Friday night_ , Illya.”

“So it is,” said Illya. “And here you are, watching me write a report.”

“Here I am,” said Napoleon agreeably. He leaned over the table, peering curiously at Illya’s diagrams. “Is that a night vision scope?”

Illya nodded. “It occurred to me that it might be a useful addition, since our guns do not currently have them.”

“Night vision scopes are really bulky, though,” observed Napoleon. “It’ll be tough to carry them around if we have to be on the move.”

“True,” said Illya. “For now, I thought that we could bring them only if we know the mission requires it.”

“A night vision scope would have been really useful in Budapest last month,” sighed Napoleon. “I definitely wouldn’t have missed that shot then.”

“Perhaps,” said Illya, and smirked.

Napoleon looked indignant. “I was shooting _in the dark_.”

“If you call that shooting,” said Illya mildly. Napoleon glared at him, then retreated to the corner of the sofa and sulked, nibbling on his steak.

Illya cast his partner an amused glance, then returned to his report.

“I need to figure out a way to miniaturize it. If I could increase the efficiency of the image intensifier...” he trailed off, tapping his pen against his lower lip, deep in thought.

Napoleon watched Illya as he continued to work, offering the occasional comment or suggestion, which somehow turned into a lively discussion on other features they could add to their guns, with each successive suggestion getting more and more outlandish.

When he was mostly happy with his report, Illya got up and went to the kitchen to get a glass of water. “Do you want something to drink, Napoleon?” he called from the kitchen. Receiving no response, he poked his head back into the living room. “Napoleon?”

His partner was curled into the corner of the sofa, head pillowed on the armrest, fast asleep. The plate he had been eating from – now empty – dangled from one hand.

Illya’s lips quirked. Taking the plate from his partner’s unresisting hand, he brought it to the kitchen and left it in the sink to soak, then went to his bedroom and got out a spare pillow and blanket. He came back out into the living room, lifted his partner’s head and tucked the pillow under it, and covered Napoleon with the blanket. Napoleon made a little sound of contentment in his sleep and snuggled deeper into the blanket so that only the top of his head was showing.

“Good night, Napoleon,” murmured Illya. He turned the lights in the apartment off and went to bed.

 

***

 

“How was your date?” Illya asked, busily making some notes on a report as Napoleon stepped into their office. He didn’t _really_ want to hear about how well Napoleon’s date had gone, but he supposed as Napoleon’s friend it was only polite to ask. Napoleon would probably mention something about his date in the course of the day anyway, so it wasn’t like it made much of a difference either way.

“She’s perfect,” said Napoleon, taking his coat off and hanging it up on the coat hook.

Illya stifled a wince. _This is it_ , he thought fatalistically. Well, as difficult as it was, he’d always known this day would come. At least he and Napoleon would still be partners. And friends. And that, he told himself sternly, was enough. He had no right to want more.

He returned to reality just in time to realize Napoleon had apparently continued talking the entire time he had zoned out, and was now looking at him expectantly.

“So...when are you seeing her again?” he ventured.

“Did you hear _anything_ I said?” said Napoleon, narrowing his eyes at him. “I’m not seeing her again.”

Illya stared blankly at Napoleon, then made a show of putting his report aside. “I assure you, you have my full attention now.”

Napoleon sighed in an exaggerated manner. “I _said_ , she’s perfect. Intelligent, gorgeous, blonde, witty, fiercely independent. Exactly what I’m looking for.” He paused, pursing his lips.

“But?” said Illya.

Napoleon’s brow furrowed. “Something’s still missing. I just can’t put my finger on it.”

Illya grunted. “Maybe you need to stop thinking so hard about it.”

“You?” demanded Napoleon. “ _You_ are telling me not to think too hard? This from the man who makes at least ten contingency plans for each mission?”

“And you,” said Illya, “keep telling me to trust my ‘gut’ more. I am simply suggesting you take your own advice.”

“I didn’t know you had such faith in my instincts.”

“I hate to say this, as I do not want to further inflate your already oversized ego,” said Illya, “but your instincts have seldom led us wrong, Napoleon.”

Napoleon grinned at him. “Only you could make a compliment sound like an insult.”

“I do my best,” said Illya.

“Okay, fine,” said Napoleon. “I’ll try it your way and see how that turns out.”

“I am,” Illya warned him, “not the best person to ask for advice on your love life. Since mine is clearly nonexistent.”

“Not for lack of trying on the part of the dozens of women who try to get you to take them out,” said Napoleon. “Honestly, if I hear one more unsubtle hint about a show or concert a woman wants to see while she just happens to be within your hearing range...would it _really_ kill you to put your work aside for one evening and go on a date with one of these women, Illya?”

“Yes,” said Illya.

Napoleon sighed, then perked up. “Hey, maybe we could go on a double da – ”

“No,” said Illya. “Do not even go there.”

 

***

 

“I’ve been thinking about what you said,” said Napoleon, pouring himself a drink. He and Illya had just completed a mission, and, after going back to their respective apartments to shower and change their clothes, had met up in Illya’s apartment for a post-mission drink. Fortunately, neither of them had sustained any injuries more serious than some bruises and scrapes.

“You’ll have to be more specific than that,” said Illya, carrying an empty glass and a bottle of vodka over to the sofa and settling on it.

“What you told me about trusting my instincts,” said Napoleon slowly. “I think...I might have finally found what I was looking for.”

He sat down on the sofa beside Illya. “I think...I’ve found someone. Well, actually, I’ve been thinking about it a lot, so I’m pretty sure I have.”

“I thought the point of this exercise was not to think too much,” said Illya, pouring himself some vodka.

“Well, I wasn’t, at first,” explained Napoleon. “I hadn’t considered dating this person before, not really. But when I’m with this person, it _feels_ right. And when I _really_ thought about it, all the qualities I was looking for – those are all there, too.”

“Ah.” Illya took a careful sip of his vodka.

“But,” Napoleon added with a grimace, “the problem is, I’m not sure if this person feels the same way about me.”

“Napoleon.” Illya looked at his partner steadily over the rim of his glass. “Any woman would be lucky to have your regard, and she would be a fool not to know it.”

Napoleon stared down into his glass and mumbled something inaudible.

“What?” said Illya.

“I said,” Napoleon looked up, something almost defiant in his gaze, “what if it’s not a woman?”

“Oh.” Illya blinked. “ _Oh._ ”

Napoleon’s gaze was steady, but his white-knuckled grip on his glass told Illya all he needed to know.

Illya swallowed hard, wanting desperately to hope but not daring to. He settled for the safe route. “I stand by my earlier statement,” he told Napoleon. “Man or woman, the person you...care for would be a fool to squander your regard.”

Napoleon relaxed minutely, but somehow didn’t look any happier. He nodded.

An awkward silence fell. Illya fiddled with his glass and glanced at Napoleon from beneath lowered lashes. It’d been a long time since he’d been unable to discern Napoleon’s mood – not since they’d first been partnered – but right now, Napoleon’s expression was completely unreadable.

“Actually, I’m a little tired,” said Napoleon. “I think I’m going to call it a night. Thanks for the drink. See you tomorrow?”

Illya nodded mutely as Napoleon stood up, giving him a jaunty wave before collecting his jacket and heading out. The door clicked shut softly behind him.

Left alone in his apartment, Illya closed his eyes briefly, head bowed, resting the cold glass of vodka against his forehead.

Opening his eyes, he grabbed the bottle of vodka off the table to refill his glass, then paused and looked from his glass in one hand, to the half-full bottle of vodka in the other. Scowling bitterly, he threw the glass at the fireplace, hard – where it shattered noisily – and commenced drinking straight from the vodka bottle.

The door clicked and swung open. Illya’s gun was in his hand and pointed at the door almost before he registered the sound.

Napoleon poked his head in. “Hey, I forgot – ”

Illya stared up at his partner, the vodka bottle still at his lips. He lowered it, and the gun, slowly.

Napoleon blinked. His gaze travelled from Illya, vodka bottle in one hand and gun in the other, to the unlit fireplace, where dozens of glittering shards were all that remained of Illya’s glass, and back to his partner. He stepped into the apartment slowly, letting the door swing shut behind him.

Illya eyed him cautiously, clutching the vodka bottle protectively to his chest. “You forgot something?”

“Yes,” Napoleon said, coming over to Illya and sitting down on the sofa beside him. “Yes, I think I did.” He turned, angling his body to face Illya, taking the gun from Illya’s hand and putting it on the table, still within easy reach for both of them.

“You see, when I left earlier,” he continued, with the hushed air of a man confessing a long-kept secret, “I...well, I lost my nerve. I’d like to try to, ah, remedy that now.”

He stared at Illya for a moment longer. “God help me if I’m wrong.”

Leaning forward, he pressed his lips to his partner’s. Illya, who had been hoping for exactly this outcome but was not actually able to believe it was happening, froze in shock. Seemingly taking his partner’s unresponsiveness for rejection, Napoleon hurriedly pulled away. Hastily dropping the vodka bottle, which clanked noisily to the floor and rolled away under a table, Illya’s hand shot out to grab his partner before Napoleon could make his escape. They stared at each other for a breathless heartbeat, then Illya dragged his partner back towards him, Napoleon sprawling over his lap with an exclamation of surprise as Illya sealed his lips over his partner’s hungrily, pulling Napoleon as close as he possibly could, hand fisted in Napoleon’s expensive shirt.

“I do not believe in a god,” murmured Illya, when they parted for breath. “But you were not wrong.”

Napoleon gave him a brilliant smile that made Illya’s heart do some complicated acrobatics in his chest, and kissed him again.

“I’m an idiot,” he sighed. “I can’t believe I took so long to find what was right under my nose the entire time.”

“You _are_ an idiot,” agreed Illya.

“Hey!”

“But better late than never,” Illya continued, and Napoleon had to agree.

“I believe,” said Illya, “Mr. Waverly mentioned something about giving us the day off tomorrow to rest.”

“He did,” Napoleon nodded.

“Well,” said Illya nonchalantly, “I have some ideas about how we could spend our day off.”

Napoleon’s lips curved up in a slow smile, gaze warm and full of promise.

“Show me.”

 

 

– End –

 


End file.
